


More an Antique Roman

by hopeless_eccentric



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Hamlet spoilers if that matters to you, Humor, Other, in which jet wants to do a crossword, minor angst?, poetry night shenanigans, while juno and nureyev explore the wonders of shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_eccentric/pseuds/hopeless_eccentric
Summary: For a moment, it looked like Jet might be able to spend a few quiet, pensive moments mulling over such things as “Damascus _____” (four down, five letters, last letter “L”) and “More an antique Roman…” (twenty six across, three words, nine letters, no given letters).However, as hearts and passions swelled, so too did the volume of the fourth sonnet Peter Ransom had subjected him to that night.Jet was starting to wonder if Ransom loved Juno or if he just loved sonnets.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 34
Kudos: 105





	More an Antique Roman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amillionworlds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionworlds/gifts).



> Prompt swap with @amillionworlds !! Go check out her stuff!!
> 
> Hey. So. Uh. Major spoilers for the end of Hamlet if you have somehow gone through life swaddled in innocence. 
> 
> Content warnings for passing mentions of injury, passing mentions of murder, minor shakespearean style suicide attempt (it's not actively IN the story, it's in the story in the story), mentions of poisoning

Four down. Five letters. “Damascus _____.” Last letter “L.” 

Jet Sikuliaq didn’t have the answer for many questions, let alone “Damascus _____.” However, he often found he would rather worry about such things as four down or twenty six across than matters of more importance. 

He had intended for this evening to be dedicated to such matters as he hunched over his desk. His tea gradually steeped and went cold as he wrote and erased and double checked the answers on the inch thick pad of crosswords Rita bought him as a birthday present. 

Whether or not his intentions came to fruition, however, depended largely on how the dreaded “poetry night” went next door. 

Twenty six across. Nine letters. Three words. “More an antique Roman…” No given letters. 

Whatever free-verse lyric Juno Steel was soldiering his way through, however, certainly did not contain the answer. 

. . . 

One wall over, Peter Nureyev thought Juno looked just as lovely guarded behind a furrowed brow and set jaw as he did with his soul laid bare. 

His eye, soft and dark as the honeyed lamplight around them, was wide. Nureyev could tell he was waiting for some kind of answer, whether it be a discussion of his fears or just something to break the silence. 

Nureyev took Juno by the hand. Juno beat him to squeezing it by a few seconds. 

“Thank you,” Nureyev smiled. The look made the vulnerable expression on Juno’s face shift towards something a lot more comfortable. “It means the world that you would trust me to this extent.” 

Juno swallowed. “Do you—uh—wanna talk about it? I don’t wanna take too much of your time or anything, and you still have to go, so if not that’s okay—“ 

He was broken off by a thunk so solid Nureyev wondered if Jet could hear it in the next room. 

. . . 

Jet could hear it in the next room. 

. . . 

The sound wasn’t the thing intimidating Juno, however. That honor had to go to the leather bound tome Nureyev dropped onto his desk. He thought it might be sim leather, but with what had to be gold leaf in the cover and a very old binding, Juno had his doubts.

The thunk of the book rang throughout the tiny quarters like a bass drum. Juno felt himself swallow. 

His little red notebook, which cost him less than a cred, was suddenly feeling very small. 

“You prepared that much?” Juno finally choked. 

“Of course not. I’ve just selected passages,” Peter reassured. He picked up the book once more and laid it across his lap. When he opened it, Juno could have sworn the binding creaked. 

“Jesus, how old is that thing?”

“Frankly, I have no more idea than you. I’m told it was an heirloom before I—“ Nureyev broke off with a sly grin. “Took possession of it.”

“Got it. This is about a week old,” Juno snorted, gesturing with the floppy little notebook. 

“No judgement, my dear. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed, it should be me,” Nureyev explained, face flushing slightly as he spoke. It was a rarity to see him look remotely flustered, let alone blushing. Juno didn’t feel half as bad about laying his soul bare anymore. 

“I don’t get it,” Juno admitted. “I don’t see any reason to be embarrassed. You just overprepared. You overprepare for everything.” 

Nureyev shook his head and held up the book. 

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. 

. . . 

Thirty three down. “Leave out.” Four letters. Third letter “I.” 

Whatever the answer was certainly wasn’t in the first two sonnets Peter Ransom was performing with all the gusto and seemingly, volume he could manage. 

Jet didn’t take a lot of time for himself, so when he had a few spare hours alone in his quarters with a warm drink and book or crossword, he treasured his peace, quiet, and space for thinking. 

It was very difficult to use his time for thinking when Ransom started his third sonnet. 

Whether not he “see’st the glowing of such fire that on the ashes of his youth doth lie” in Ransom did little to help with his crossword and even less to help with his attempt at a quiet evening alone. 

In his opinion, Ransom’s choice in poem was melodramatic at the least. He was the youngest on the crew by a few years and likely wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing “the twilight of such day as after sunset fadeth in the west” in him for some time now. 

It wasn’t Jet’s place to judge his crewmate’s insecurities. Whatever plagued Ransom wasn’t his business. 

What was his business, however, was the volume at which Ransom expressed said insecurities. 

. . . 

“Would a fourth sonnet be gratuitous?” Nureyev couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Hell, I’m not gonna stop you,” Juno laughed. “You’re enjoying yourself way too much over there.” 

They jumped at the sound of a dull thunk from the other side of the wall. 

Juno could’ve sworn Jet and Rita had a movie marathon tonight, but the sound from the other room was suspiciously like a long-suffering head hitting a desk. 

. . . 

Jet didn’t mean for his head to collide with the table, but some things just couldn’t be helped. 

He was already stooped over for a better look at the tiny print of the crossword clues when he heard Ransom’s voice, clear as day and ringing out like the tolling of a funeral bell. 

Worst of all, that funeral bell had suggested a fourth sonnet. 

One sonnet was tolerable. Four required an intervention.

. . . 

“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes—“

Nureyev was broken off by a rapid, arrhythmic tapping on the wall. He shot Juno a questioning glance.

“Sounds like Morse code,” Juno murmured, head turned to the wall, as if a visual might help. 

“What did it say?” 

Juno shrugged. “I don’t know a lick of Morse code.” 

. . . 

Jet did. It translated roughly to a pair of sore knuckles and “PLEASE NO.” 

. . . 

Nureyev opened the tome to his bookmarked page once more. 

“I’ll lower my volume a bit, just in case,” he offered, and began again. 

. . . 

For a moment, it looked like Jet might be able to spend a few quiet, pensive moments mulling over such things as “Damascus _____” (four down, five letters, last letter “L”) and “More an antique Roman…” (twenty six across, three words, nine letters, no given letters). 

However, as hearts and passions swelled, so too did the volume of the fourth sonnet Peter Ransom had subjected him to that night. 

Jet was starting to wonder if Ransom loved Juno or if he just loved sonnets. 

. . . 

As the last couplet closed the sonnet, Juno couldn’t help a grin. 

“What?” Nureyev laughed, half ready to roll his eyes when Juno squeezed his hand. 

“It’s just nice, y’know?” Juno started. “Seeing you have fun like this. The communication’s great too, don’t get me wrong. But it’s just—y’know? I don’t feel like I get to see you unwind very often.” 

“Would you like to try?” Nureyev offered, turning the book around and holding it out. When Juno went a little gray at the prospect, he let it fall back into his lap. 

“Fourteen lines is a lot longer than it seems, and I dunno if I’m ready to do all that by myself,” Juno said with a nervous laugh that faded when Nureyev gave his shoulder a squeeze. 

“That’s okay,” Peter smiled. “If you still want to try, we could start with a scene, perhaps.” 

“Like what?” 

Nureyev thumbed through the gilded pages. They twinkled in the soft lamplight as they waved by, ceasing their tiny, percussive dance when Peter found the page he was looking for. 

“Juno, dear, have you ever read Hamlet?” 

. . . 

Thirty three down had been “omit.” 

That was about all Jet could manage to figure out as he sat through a very long-winded summary of a fairly simple play. 

He wished he could omit this entire evening from his memory. 

. . . 

“Let me get this straight. So this Horatio guy—“ Juno started, pausing to take a drink of coffee. “He doesn’t talk much, right?” 

“I’m afraid he speaks quite a bit, though not nearly as much as some others,” Nureyev chuckled. He fixed Juno with a look so soft and sweet that Juno had to turn his gaze back to the book to avoid blushing. 

“And he’s Hamlet’s boyfriend, right?” 

Nureyev shrugged. “It’s a matter of intense scholarly debate,” he said with a smile like he was telling an inside joke. 

“Right. So he’s Hamlet’s boyfriend.” 

“I suppose you could put it that way. All I’m saying is that most productions and adaptations end the play with the two of them kissing,” Nureyev returned, his lofty tone earning him an affectionate glare. 

“Cool. Great. So where are we starting?” 

Nureyev grinned. 

“The end.” 

. . . 

Rita would probably know the answer to four down, but it felt a bit like cheating when Jet could probably figure out the answer for himself. At least, he could probably figure out four down if he didn’t have to listen to Juno Steel trying not to cry one room over. 

. . . 

“I am dead, Horatio,” Nureyev breathed, so soft and ragged Juno barely heard it. Peter managed a soft smile when Juno squeezed his hand. “Wretched queen, adieu—you that look pale and tremble at this chance…” 

He said more, though Juno heard none of it. He kept one hand closed over Nureyev’s where it lay across his abdomen, covering an imagined wound from a poisoned sword. His other hand trembled its way back and forth from Nureyev’s cheekbone to his scalp. His fingers traced along that noble face and rubbed comforting circles into his scalp, as if that would do a thing at all to quell his imagined pain. 

“Horatio, I am dead,” Nureyev pressed forward. He tried to sit up a little straighter where he had slumped against the footboard of the bed, but Juno pressed him back down. Peter showed his thanks in a smile so weak it made Juno’s heart just about break in two. “Thou livest. Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied.” 

Juno gave the book, now propped open between their laps, a long look. He hadn’t realized how choked up he had become until a tear slid off his nose and landed atop one of Nureyev’s lines. 

Peter strained to lean up and kiss his cheek. Juno didn’t see that anywhere in the stage directions, but he doubted there was an iota of him that was complaining. 

“Never believe it,” he started, astonished that his words had remained so even. “I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.” 

. . . 

As Jet filled in twenty six across, he couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, poetry night wasn’t half bad after all. 

. . . 

“Here’s yet some liquor left—“ Juno pressed, raising the dregs of his coffee to his lips as if it were a chalice, rather than a personalized “NUMBAH ONE BOSS” mug. 

The hand not braced in Juno’s vice-grip shot out, catching the mug before the imagined poison could leave the imagined chalice. 

Nureyev was saying something else, but it didn’t really register. He had long since set Juno’s mug aside and replaced that hand on his partner’s face. Juno was sure he could drown in those sharp, dark eyes as Peter ran a thumb over his cheekbone, wiping aside tears and tracing an invisible, many petaled flower into his cheek. 

“O God, Horatio,” Nureyev sighed, sounding so damn tired it just about broke Juno’s heart. “What a wounded name.” 

. . . 

Jet wasn’t sure if the passionate sonnets or sounds of Juno Steel trying not to cry over a two thousand year old play were worse. Neither seemed to answer the question that still hung in the air as thick and potent as that cologne Ransom wore whenever he intended on making Steel trip and stammer all over himself. 

Four down. Five letters. “Damascus _____.”

This would have all been so much more bearable if he didn’t know the answer at all. Instead, it had spent over an hour on the tip of his tongue. However, Steel and Ransom seemed intent on fending the word off. 

After another few minutes of letting his tea go cold, he sighed, shook his head, and resigned to playing solitaire on his comms until the show next door either ended or there was some kind of intermission. 

. . . 

“O, I die, Horatio,” Nureyev continued, thumb having to work overtime to wipe the tears Juno would vehemently deny shedding. “The potent poison quite o’ercrows my spirit.” 

Juno wasn’t sure if Nureyev could even see the book from his position, though he had a sneaking suspicion he didn’t entirely need the lines. Knowing Peter, he’d probably been planning this for several weeks. 

Juno’s grasp was the last thing keeping him from the floor, one hand firm against the center of his back. His other hand couldn’t bear to leave Nureyev’s cheek for a single moment.

Nureyev said a few lines about politics Juno didn’t have the fortitude to place within the larger story. He didn’t particularly care. All he could think of was that soft look in his eye like Nureyev could die happy looking at his entire world. 

He couldn’t tell which one of them kissed the other first, just that their lips were a pair of celestial bodies, pulled into an ever tighter orbit and finally crashing and melding until Juno could no longer tell where each original planet had begun. 

Juno didn’t think he would’ve been able to end such a kiss himself. Luckily, he didn’t have to. The script called for Hamlet’s death, and Nureyev delivered a performance so heartrending that Juno slid a pair of fingers over his pulse point just for his own peace of mind. 

Still there. Strong as ever, and for the time being, a little elevated. Juno wondered if all that eye contact had been getting to Nureyev as well. 

“Now cracks a noble heart,” Juno began, surprised he could even manage to choke out the words. “Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” 

Nureyev’s face bloomed into a smile before he could even open his eyes. 

“You were exquisite, Juno,” he grinned, though it faltered upon the sight of Juno’s face. “Oh dear Lord, are you alright?” 

“Get over here and kiss me.” 

Nureyev didn’t think he could argue with that if he wanted to. 

. . . 

Jet didn’t like kisses. He could bear seeing them and held no judgement towards those who disagreed with his opinion, but overall, found them mediocre at best and gross at worst. 

Only hearing a kiss was a different matter altogether. It felt like someone was chewing bubble gum as an offensive tactic, or a cat was licking itself very close to his ear. 

The dull thud on the other side of the wall and muffled noise that he really hoped wasn’t a moan weren’t making matters much better. 

He sighed. He reminded himself his crewmates were entitled to their recreation. He tried looking at that crossword again. 

“Damascus _____” continued to mock him from the page. 

He squinted, as if staring harder might make the answer waltz into his head. 

“Juno Steel, you brute—“ Ransom gasped in a tone that made Jet question if he’d sleep at all that night. 

However, if the paper would not yield the answer, it seemed that Peter Ransom would. 

“Steel!” Jet laughed aloud. He jotted a quick “S-T-E-E-L” over four down, shaking his head. 

The lady himself must have heard, however, for the thin ship walls let through his yelp of surprise, as well as Nureyev’s muffled snickers. 

Well, that was two problems taken care of. Jet would have to thank them for both the answers and the extra hours of sleep at the family meeting tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry? Idk I had a fuckin blast writing this 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!! Don't forget to smash that kudos button and if you don't leave a comment, I'll eat your kneecaps!
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr @ hopeless-eccentric


End file.
